


War will change us both

by apolesen



Category: Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: M/M, Time War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:43:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world of the Time War was crueler and colder than the world of their frivolous travels, and it had carelessly molded the Doctor into another being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War will change us both

No one knew how long the Time War had dragged on before the fall of Arcadia. There were generations that had fought for centuries, but for the Doctor, it had been a year, maybe two, possibly three. Fitz could not quite tell - traveling with the Doctor had ruined any sense of time he had previously had. Since the beginning of the war, he had met more Time Lords than ever before; the Doctor had never been so immersed in the doings of his people before. Fitz disliked most of them - they seemed pompous and judging - and the Doctor apparently felt something similar about them, apart from for a few individuals. He tolerated the Lady President and even kissed her cheek by way of greeting, which had made Fitz rather jealous. She was much more pleasant towards him now than last time they met, however, as if she understood what he shared with the Doctor, that he felt unable to dislike her properly. Most other Time Lords seemed to bear his presence only grudgingly, and at times, there had been scandalised mutterings and the Doctor had said softly, dangling the keys in front of him, ‘why don’t you go and guard the TARDIS, Fitz?’ as if trying to pretend he was not sending him away on a higher authority’s order. That always put him in a mood, and the Doctor usually did not tell him what had been said at those meetings, which did not make it any better (although he was not certain if the Doctor always knew what was going on either - for once, he was not his own free spirit). That kind of thing only reminded Fitz that the Doctor actually did not want him there.

When it had been apparent what was happening and the summons from the Time Lords became more frequent, the Doctor had quietly turned to the TARDIS console and started programming a course.

‘Where are we going?’ Fitz had asked, and kept asking for another ten minutes, while the Doctor went around and around the console, pretending to make adjustments and check the coordinates, while the engines laboured around them. At last he sighed and admitted:

‘Earth. 1963.’ The word “why” died on Fitz’s lips when he realised.

‘No. No, you can’t.’ The Doctor started arguing.

‘You don’t know what is about to happen - Earth will be safe...’

‘I’m not _leaving_!’

‘You have to!’ the Doctor shouted back, but his anger disappeared at once, and his companion suddenly realised how much it was hurting him to request this. He looked at him with appealing eyes and whispered: ‘Please, Fitz, let me take you somewhere safe.’

‘What about you?’ Neither he was able to do more than whisper.

‘There are things I need to do,’ the Doctor explained quietly, but he sounded like he was reluctant to do anything; he looked like he was about to curl up and cry. Fitz usually hated seeing him pitiable, but now it truly scared him. ‘The Time Lords’ policy of non-interference can’t stand, and, well, I’m the best there is at breaking against it.’

‘I’ll stay with you,’ Fitz said.

‘No, I won’t allow it,’ the Doctor said sharply and turned away from him violently. ‘You don’t _understand_.’

‘Make me understand.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ he snorted and checked their progress. Fitz heard the engines sigh and then start to wind down with a grating noise. They were landing. He felt himself go cold. ‘There,’ the Doctor said and walked past him to the door. When it opened, Fitz saw a bustling London street outside. ‘Out you go.’ He did not move. ‘Fitz, please.’

‘Would you be alright without me?’ Fitz asked, and the Doctor looked struck by the question. He hesitated and then left the door, which was still ajar, to cross to him again. Standing close, Fitz imagined he could hear the beat of his hearts, but any vague reflection of the kind disappeared when the Doctor reached out and grabbed his shoulders affectionately.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But you’ll be.’

‘You’re rubbish on your own,’ Fitz muttered and let the Doctor lean their foreheads together. ‘Besides, you don’t like the Time Lords one bit.’ There was a long pause, and Fitz tried not to think, _he’s giving in_ , but then the Doctor let go with one hand and without shifting reached to the console. The doors snapped shut and the engines started up again. Before he had time to move away, Fitz put his hand to his neck and kissed him. ‘We’ll be alright.’

‘It won’t be another adventure,’ the Doctor whispered. ‘It’ll be the end of the world.’ But then he kissed him back, and that was all the acknowledgement Fitz needed to know that despite everything, the Doctor was bringing him with him even now.

And then came Arcadia. The TARDIS was spinning around itself, the internal dimensions free from the outer and Fitz’s head within both.

‘Hold on tight!’ the Doctor shouted and grabbed his hand as he pulled a lever on the console and the TARDIS made an angry sound. Fitz mastered the nausea and nodded at the Doctor to show that he was ready. But there was no laughter, as there so often had been before. The TARDIS did not contain joy anymore, only necessity. He squeezed the Time Lord’s hand and grabbed hold of the console as the ship jerked in three directions at once. ‘How does it look?’

‘Seventy-three Dalek ships,’ Fitz read on the screen in front of him. ‘Ninety War TARDISes. There’s going to be a battle, right?’

‘Oh, it’s already happening,’ the Doctor said. ‘The Daleks have probably planted time-bombs all around - we just can’t see them yet. We’ll need to tread carefully. Right.’ He screwed up his face in concentration as his free hand flew over the controls. ‘What we need is a strong pulse of temporal energy - that should make them cut out...’ He muttered to himself while making the calculations, letting go of Fitz to be able to work quicker. Fitz simply watched the numbers on the screen in front of him, intent to be of some use. Then suddenly he saw something happening.

‘Doctor!’ he shouted. ‘They’re leaving!’ The Doctor had been on the other side of the console, but rushed around.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The TARDISes - they’re disappearing. There’s only fifty-seven left... thirty-two - no, thirty-one...’ The Doctor looked bewildered at the screen.

‘It can’t be,’ he muttered and made it show further readings. Then he concluded: ‘They’re not leaving.’

‘Is the TARDIS wrong, you mean?’ He shook his head, not looking away from the screen.

‘They’ve been destroyed,’ he said, face blank with disbelief. ‘It’s a trap.’ Then he swallowed as piece of new information showed on the screen. ‘The Daleks have started attacking the colony.’

Fitz could not hear if he said anything else. There was a deafening sound and suddenly they were spinning faster than before, motion within motion. His feet left the ground; they had lost gravity. He caught a glance of the Doctor whirling past, but then lost sight of him. The TARDIS was moving faster than Fitz was, and its walls kept hitting him. He felt its internal dimensions changing, and he was thrown through rooms he did not know even existed. He saw the Butterfly Room breaking apart, the artificial sky buckling and shrinking. Then he was back in the control room, and he could smell fire. An explosion went off close by and suddenly he tumbled to the ground, feeling himself bouncing against the marble floor.

When he finally got up, he realised that he was lying close to the doors. The TARDIS was still spinning and fire had latched onto the console. One of the bookshelves was ablaze, and the antique clocks had been smashed, their ticking stilled. His head and back hurt, and when he tried to stand up he realised he must at least have sprained his ankle.

‘Doctor?’ he shouted over the sound of the pained shout of engines. There was no answer. Deciding to bear the pain, he got to his feet and stumbled to the console. He had assumed that the Doctor would be there, still tinkering with the controls and keeping track of the battle, but he was nowhere to be seen. ‘Doctor?’ he shouted again, and the vast TARDIS repeated the echo of his cry. He tried to look around, but the lights were down, and the red emergency lights and the blaze from the fire did not grant any good illumination. Going down on his hands and knees, he crawled around the console, then off the platform and towards the chamber of the Eye. ‘Doctor?’ He crawled towards the doors, and on the very threshold, something met his hands. A new explosion burst out of the engines and threw the room into stark relief. There was a collapsed shape only feet away. He shouted his name over and over again, but there was no answer. Trembling, he pawed over his chest and face and felt the unmistakable wetness of blood. ‘Doctor!’ he screamed, and when there was no answer still he drew himself onto his feet and made an effort to lift the man. His ankle would not let him, so he got down on his knees and leaned the Doctor’s head against his own shoulder and dragged him towards the console. There was more light there, so he could look over his injuries, and that was also where the Doctor had to be when he woke up. _When?_ a little voice in Fitz’s head said, questioning his choice of words, but he hushed at it.

He could not say how long it took him to drag the Doctor across the floor, but it seemed like at least fifteen minutes. When he finally got there, he realised that the Doctor was still out cold.

'Damn,’ he muttered, shrugged the Doctor’s head off his shoulder and lowered it down to the ground, using his arm to support it. When he looked at him, he gasped. _All that blood..._ His face was covered in it, so badly that he could not tell where the wound was. It was not just his head either; it was seeping through his white shirt, and one of his legs was at an odd angle. ‘Doctor, can you hear me?’ Fitz shouted, trying not to panic. He leaned over him, and felt the soft tickle of his breath against his cheek. Marginally relieved, he tore off a part of his t-shirt and pressed it against the Time Lord’s face; there was no time to look for a first-aid kit, and it had probably been dislodged during their tumble. It was not until then he realised that they were still whirling - falling. A mad red light was flashing on the console, and he dreaded to think what it meant. ‘Doctor, wake up!’ he urged him, but nothing happened. He could still feel the rise and fall of his chest under his arm, but the piece of shirt was already bled through, and he did not dare to remove the pressure on his face, for fear of seeing the wounds. There was not a chance that he would wake soon. His hand grazed something on the Doctor’s chest; he lifted his coat and realised it was the sonic screwdriver. It still looked intact - it was a wonder that it had not been smashed or, worse, driven into the Doctor’s body. Fitz fumbled for it; even after all these years, he did not know how it worked, but there was an obvious button on the side, and he thought he had seen the Doctor press it. _We’re going to die anyway_ , he thought mirthlessly, pointed the sonic screwdriver on the console and activated it.

 _***_

The first thing Fitz felt after that was sunlight. At first he did not know what it was, and he tried to turn away from it, but its warmth felt familiar, and after a while he relaxed into it. _Home,_ a voice whispered inside him. _No, not home_ , another answered. _Where’s the Doctor?_  
***  
The second thing was the voices. He only understood parts of what they were saying, as if the telepathic field of the TARDIS was slipping. The words he heard were _scavenger, found, screwdriver, from where, dead, how can we know...?_

 _***_

The third thing was the sight of a young girl leaning over him. He blinked a few times and wondered if it was a dream, because she was very pretty. She did not dissolve.

‘Hi, gorgeous,’ he said with difficulty, at which she sprang back in alarm and rushed from the room. He attempted to sit up to see where she went, but found that he was tethered to the bed.

 _Tethered? Bed?_

He looked around and realised that he was in a small room with a low vaulted ceiling. The window had no glass in it, but faced onto mountains and sea. There were two suns in the sky, and a huge red planet was just about to disappear beneath the horizon. The sunlight had not been from his sun.

He watched the view until there was footsteps, and he realised that the girl, whom he now saw was dressed in a starched headdress, had returned. With her were several grim-looking persons, one in blue robes, the rest in black and with weapons. They were all unmistakably Time Lords, even the girl, with the seal of Rassilon on her collar.

‘Where am I?’ Fitz asked. ‘Where’s the Doctor?’ The blue-clad of the Time Lords, a stately woman whose face seemed unable to smile, approached and stared at him. She said something which sounded like a question, but he did not understand the Gallifreyan. ‘Sorry, don’t understand.’ She repeated it, but it was not until the fourth time it came out in something he understood.

‘From where and when are you?’

‘Earth,’ he answered. ‘1963. Where’s the Doctor?’

‘You are a scavenger, correct?’ the woman asked. ‘You will be charged as such.’

‘ _What_? What d’you mean _charged_?' he shouted, almost spitting her in the face. It did not disturb her equilibrium, but she only straightened up and drew something form her robe. In her hand lay the Doctor’s screwdriver.

‘Hey!’

‘Do you know this?’ she asked. ‘From whom did you take it?’

‘I didn’t take it,’ Fitz said. ‘It’s the Doctor’s - I used it...’ She looked back at her armed companions and seemed to confer with them. Then she turned back.

‘Used it?’

‘The TARDIS was crashing - I didn’t know what to do. I thought perhaps the sonic screwdriver might help... Where’s the Doctor?’ But the woman started leaving and his shouting did not make her turn back.

***  
Fitz fell asleep and awoke without anyone answering his questions. The stern woman’s silence at his question of the Doctor meant that whenever he was awake more than a few minutes he started wondering what had happened. _Could it be...?_ But no, surely not. He would know if the Doctor was dead. He would feel it. But what if he had, and he had not noticed, in his concussed and pain-filled state? Other questions occupied him too. Why had she taken him for a scavenger? What was this place? But the question of the Doctor kept coming back to him. _Where are you, Doctor?_

The second time the red planet started setting, the cycle of which Fitz later learnt was eight days, the woman came back. She ordered that he be released from the leather bonds that held him down, and uncomfortably he drew himself up to a sitting position. While he was rubbing his wrists, he looked at her and asked:

‘Who’re you?’

‘I am the Proprietor,’ she simply answered. ‘I run this establishment. You are Fitz Kreiner. You travelled with the Doctor.’

‘Yes,’ he said, feeling some hope that this would resolve itself after all. ‘Why didn’t you believe me when I said so?’

‘You were found with a piece of Time Lord technology, while you are yourself a human. Therefore we assumed that you must be taking advantage of the situation, and had taken it from someone fallen during the battle. Therefore we brought you here, to take care of your wounds and eventually put you on trial - although in light of new findings, the latter will not come to pass.’ Fitz had stopped listening half-way through.

‘Someone fallen...’ he said, struck by the implication of that. It was best to ask. ‘Where’s the Doctor?’

‘He has been located,’ she simply said.

‘Where is he? Is he alright?’

‘He lives. He has been transferred here.’ He breathed a sigh of relief, and for a moment he thought the Doctor would come bursting in, smiling and gesturing, asking why he was in bed when there was so much to do. But then he was struck by the oddness of what she had said.

‘“Transferred”? Wasn’t he here before?’ The Proprietor shook her head.

‘We searched the field hospitals. He had not been identified - the Gallifreyan main memory-banks have been badly damaged - but the imprint on the screwdriver helped us establish his connexion to you.’

‘The field hospitals?’ Fitz repeated, surprised at how silent his own voice was. She nodded. ‘Why wasn’t he here to start with?’

‘Kreiner, you were found on Thetis Megale, he on Amanopia. Those planets are several hundred light-years away from each other. There was also a considerable temporal displacement.’

‘Will he be alright?’ he asked.

‘We will see.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It depends.’

‘On what?’ Fitz pressed. If there was anything at all he could do...

‘His TARDIS,’ the Proprietor said.

‘But surely it was...’ And then he realised. The reason why he had not been able to understand the Gallifreyan was because the TARDIS was not there, and she had not been with the Doctor either. He must have managed to make the TARDIS evacuate them. Did that mean that the TARDIS, the Doctor’s “old girl”, was left at Arcadia?

‘What happened at Arcadia?’

‘The colony was destroyed,’ the Proprietor answered. ‘The Doctor’s TARDIS has not yet been found.’ She made to leave, but he stopped her by grabbing hold of her robes.

‘What happens if you don’t find it?’ She turned around, looking from his grip to his face. Something similar to pity passed in her eyes.

‘Then the Doctor will die,’ she answered at last, and without offering any empty words of comfort, she shook her robe free and left the room.

***

The wait was unbearable. Even if he had been cleared from the allegations of being a criminal, he was still not allowed to leave his room; the Time Lords did not seem to trust him, as if they thought a human was bound to cause trouble. All he could do was to sit at the window. It had become increasingly clear that this was a kind of hospice, more permanent than any of the Time Lords’ moveable infirmaries. The building itself reminded him a little of old Mediterranean monasteries he had seen pictures of, but the brilliant vegetation outside his room betrayed its extraterrestrial location. Sometimes he would watch the flowers, changing from pink to purple to blood red throughout the hours of daylight, sometimes he would look at the comings and goings of people. As he himself improved, the concussion passing, the bruises fading and his ankle healing, he watched the Time Lords bringing wounded soldiers to the place. Sometimes he saw patients leaving, often by the looks of it newly regenerated, but it was obvious that they were far fewer than the soldiers on stretchers. He soon realised that the reason why this hospital was in such a beautiful place was that this was where they took those who had been worst injured and the ones who were already dying. The echoes of Gallifreyan funeral songs could be heard from the corridors, and every time he feared that they would bring him the bad news.

But no news came. Despite his insistent questions, no-one, not even the Proprietor, would tell him how the Doctor was, how bad his injuries were and if they had had any luck with finding the TARDIS. Fitz spent his days sitting on his bed recounting their adventures in that magic blue box - he remembered Sam and Anji and Compassion and Trix and everyone else, but most of all the Doctor. Ever time he heard the sound of TARDIS engines, he would rush to the window, but over and over again, they would appear camouflaged and unfamiliar. If the whirring sound did not turn out to belong to a 1960s police box soon, memories would be all he would have.

It was then when he realised that he had never told the Doctor the truth. Now, with death staring at him, he had got over his last fears and knew to call it love. Yes, he loved the Doctor. He loved him, and he desperately needed him back. What would happen to him if the Doctor would die? He did not even know what linear date it was - he might be thousands of years in the future or past, for all he knew. He would be stranded in the middle of this war without anyone for company. He would not be able to go back to being a coward at home, but he would not be allowed to fight. He would never play music again. He not would care what happened with the Time Lords. What would be the point? And still among all these speculations, he never stopped repeating, almost chanting, in his head: _Let the Doctor live, let the Doctor live, let the Doctor live..._

The red planet had set another five times before he heard the whirring of TARDIS engines and, when he rushed to the window, was greeted by the familiar sight of the blue police box. He could have sung. Feeling as light as a feather, he watched her for a long time before realising what a bad state she was in; half the sign saying “Police Public Call Box” had been smashed off, all the windows were gone, the paint was peeling and one of the corners had splintered. But it was her - she was there. The Doctor would live.

***

From then on, the Proprietor started giving him a little more news of the Doctor, but the details were still few. When he heard that he had risen from bed, he thought that he would come to see him, but the only visitors he had were still the pretty nurse who brought him his meals and the Proprietor who would occasionally bring him news. She never spoke of the war, but several times when she had been with him she had been summoned without notice and she had left at once, so he guessed that it was not going well. For the next few weeks, Fitz only saw the Doctor once, and he was not entirely certain that it was him. All he had seen was a figure dressed in a white linen suit and a broad-brimmed straw hat, worn against the tropical sunshine, loitering around the Doctor’s TARDIS. Fitz felt like shouting his name to catch his attention and wave, but the man’s intent concentration stopped him. He watched instead how the man drew his hands down the shell of the TARDIS, as if performing some ancient ceremonial greeting. The wood had been put into place again with metal strips and the windows had been boarded up from the inside; she was a pitiable sight, but the Time Lord still touched her with tenderness beyond a lover’s. For a brief, irrational moment, Fitz regretted that he could never understand that connexion between time-ship and Time Lord. Captains had been married to their ships throughout the history of Earth. The Doctor was no different. Fitz might love the Doctor all it pleased him, but that did not mean that he would ever understand that bond.

The call to depart had come quite suddenly, and in a surprising way. It had not been the Doctor, or even the Proprietor, but the little nurse who had brought him the message.

‘The Doctor asked me to tell you that if you wished to come with him, he is leaving in ten minutes.’ She must have interpreted Fitz’s lack of response as that he had not understood, even if the collective telepathic fields of all the present TARDISes meant he had no problem understanding the Gallifreyan anymore. ‘The Doctor asked me to...’

‘Yes, I’m coming - thanks,’ he said quickly and grabbed his leather jacket. She seemed to prepare to escort him out, but he rushed past her and through the corridors on his own. He had never seen any part of the hospital apart from his room before, but he found a set of large stone stairs which lead into the hall, from which it was easy to find his way out. The TARDIS was parked a little way away, and the door was ajar. Fitz could not contain his excitement anymore - he was going to see the Doctor again! He broke into a run and, not caring if the Time Lords thought he was mad, he shouted his name, not desperate as before, but whooping and laughing. He did not even slow down when running through the TARDIS doors.

‘Doctor!’ he exclaimed. At the controls, with his back to him, was a familiar figure. He was once again in the same kind of coat and trousers he always was in, but his hair was a little uneven, as if it had been burnt in several places and they had cut off the worst.

‘Welcome back, Fitz,’ the Doctor said without turning around. His tone did not sound particularly enthusiastic.

‘I’m...’ Fitz had to stop himself to collect his thoughts; he was still grinning widely. ‘I’m so glad you’re okay.’

‘Me too,’ the Time Lord answered, sounding almost disinterested. ‘Let’s be off, then.’ He pulled a lever and the TARDIS rumbled to life. He felt them taking off and leaving the hospital behind, but the Doctor had still not turned around to face him.

‘Is something up?’ he asked.

‘Oh, nothing at all,’ the Doctor said without moving. ‘Once more onto the breach...’ Fitz tried to figure out what would make him seem so cold.

‘Are you cross with me for taking the sonic screwdriver?’

‘Not at all,’ the Doctor said, waving it away. ‘If you hadn’t, the Time Lords would not have found you, and you’d have been stuck on Thetis Megale for the rest of your life. Not a happy fate at all.’

‘I’m glad,’ Fitz said and mounted the platform to the controls. The Doctor still did not move. ‘Doctor...?’ He reached out, and just as his hand was about to touch his shoulder, he turned. Time, for once palpable, seemed to slow down.

They had given him no warning. Time Lords were unconcerned by things of the body, and had grown more and more so during the Time War, so they had seen no reason to tell him. But Fitz was not a Time Lord, and his hand fell in mid-motion, he took a step back and all his disgust showed in his face.

 _His beautiful face..._ he thought, gagging. _What’s happened to him? His eye..._

A wide, jagged scar ran down one side of the Doctor’s face. Fitz should have been grateful about the eyepatch, but it only seemed to be pointing out what was missing. It had not occurred to him when he had tried to stop the bleeding when the TARDIS was crashing that the wound was in his face rather than his scalp. In some way, he had assumed that he would have recovered fully - he had seen the Doctor lose a heart and barely notice it, so what was a few wounds to him? But the man facing him now was only a twisted version of the one he had been waiting for. The clothes were the same, and the right side of the face, but his locks had been unevenly cut and the left side of the his face was simply not his.

The Doctor swallowed and looked at him pleadingly with his one eye.

‘Fitz...’ He did not get further.

‘I need to...’ Fitz looked away, unable to find an excuse. Then, with a futile glance back at the sad man with the mutilated face, he fled into the bowels of the TARDIS, until he found his room, displaced within the interiors of the place. He did not leave it for a long time.

***

In no way was this what Fitz had expected. He had waited months to see the Doctor - he had not known whether he had been alive, or if he would be alright, and he had hoped so much - he had gotten damned near to praying - and now... Thinking of the Doctor’s eyeless face, he wondered what he found so unsettling. He wished it was because all that hoping that he would be just as normal, and that this was merely his way of responding to worry. He wished that he had simply gotten used to solitude, and he therefore had retreated to his room. He wished a million things, but none of them were true. His Doctor was not beautiful anymore. He had been destroyed, and it disgusted him, even more so because it may have been his fault. He should have acted quicker or better, he should have let the sonic screwdriver be or should have used it sooner, he should have held onto him better... And if he could not have done anything, what of the Time Lords? They were so technologically advances, surely their medicine would be at a similar level? Eyepatches were primitive and crude - the Time Lords, if anyone, should want to do better. But perhaps they felt they would be wasting their resources on such things - if you could regenerate, there was little reason to correct physical defects, especially not in the middle of a war. Most of all, however, Fitz felt that this kind of thing did not happen to the Doctor, whatever the circumstances. The Doctor always found a solution - not always an elegant one, but he never let that stop him. The Doctor was never a victim. The memory of his appearance when he had seen him in the control room reminded him that this was not true. With only regret to keep him company, he stayed in his room.

At last there was a knock on the door. Fitz rushed to it and held it shut, in case the Doctor would try to enter.

‘What?’ he shouted through it.

‘Fitz, I need your help with the controls,’ the Doctor’s disembodied voice said through the door ( _still the same voice..._ ) ‘I can’t really keep an eye on it all on my own.’ _Eye. Singular now,_ Fitz reflected. He hesitated, because he did not want to see the eyepatch and that awful scar again, but he knew he had no choice. He had promised he would help when he insisted on staying.

‘I’ll be right there,’ he answered, trying to sound light-hearted. He waited until the steps disappeared before following. When entering the control room, the place seemed eery. No one had made any attempt to clear it up, and the smell of burnt books was heavy in the air. The Doctor’s armchair had been badly charred and there was still debris which had fallen from the ceiling. The Doctor was by the controls, constantly turning his head to see what he was doing. In silence, Fitz went around the controls and stood on his right side, where the only thing which reminded him that something was wrong was the band, partially hidden by his hair, holding the eyepatch in place. The Doctor finished what he was doing and then said:

‘I need you on my other side.’ Fitz hesitated, wanting to protest, but crossed all the same. They navigated the TARDIS in silence, and Fitz made sure not to look at the Doctor throughout the flight.

***

It went on like that for quite some time. Fitz would help the Doctor to fly the TARDIS and help him with chores, but they did not speak, and he could sense a growing sorrow within the Doctor. In a way, he could understand it - he was fighting an impossible war for a people who had never cared about him, and it had ruined him even before peace was in sight. Fitz hated himself for not speaking to him, and for flinching away whenever the Doctor reached for him, even if it was a simple touch on the arm. His hands were also scarred after the crash, but in no way as badly as his face, which haunted Fitz even when he was not with him. He tried to understand the reason for his disgust - surely he had loved the Doctor for more than his looks? And then he realised he had thought of it in the past tense. Did he not love him anymore? Surely it must take more... But how could there be more?

 _He’s still the same,_ he told himself, but then disagreed.

 _No, because he doesn’t act like the Doctor anymore._

 _It’s because of the war, not what happened to him,_ the sensible part of him said.

 _It wasn’t the war which killed off his spirit._

 _It’ll get better._

Would it? Fitz did not know. He felt like the man in the control room was a stranger, and he was not as much a companion as a nurse. He knew he was being unfair, but Fitz had gone cold inside. Something had indeed changed in the Doctor. Before he had been an adventurer, but now he was a soldier. Duty seemed to weigh heavily on him, and Fitz wondered if that hideous scar seemed to the Doctor a reminder of the things he needed to to do for his people at the cost of his own liberties. The world of the Time War was crueler and colder than the world of their frivolous travels, and it had carelessly molded the Doctor into another being, one which Fitz did not know, and perhaps which the Doctor himself did not acknowledge as himself.

He knew that it would happen eventually, but it was over a week by Fitz’s reckoning until it did. It was the first time since the Doctor had asked him to help with the controls that he came to his door. At the knock, Fitz, who had been lying on his bed, fully dressed, unable to think of anything to play, sat up, but did not bother to barricade the door.

‘Come in,’ he said and felt an overwhelming sense of self-hatred as he looked away when the Doctor entered. He had fixed his gaze at a point in the ill-defined wall, so that he had a vague sense of the Doctor’s facial expression without actually looking at him. Fitz would have said he looked miserable, but it did not seem to cover the depth of the emotion in his face.

‘Fitz, I need to talk to you,’ he said slowly.

‘I’m listening,’ Fitz answered, even if he knew he did not look very concentrated. The Doctor swallowed, as if he were nervous.

‘Would you like to go home?’ Even if he had anticipated the question, it struck him. His shoulders drooped and he looked down, unable to keep up the pretense of looking at him. Yes, he would. He wished he had been clever enough to have seen that staying on had been a stupid idea. Perhaps the Doctor had been aware that something like this might happen, and his eagerness to keep Fitz safe had not been only from direct harm, but also from the things he might see; the Doctor would not have time for anyone else’s reactions. But leaving... He tried to imagine his life before that day when a funny man in a cravat and waistcoat had turned up wanting to buy a half-dead begonia. It felt like nothing had registered. He attempted to recall the faces of any girlfriend he had had before that, but there was nothing. His entire life was here, in the TARDIS, with the Doctor, and suddenly it was achingly obvious that yes, he still loved him, despite not being able to look at him...

‘Would it be possible?’ he asked. The Doctor took some time to answer.

‘Perhaps,’ he said at last. ‘But it may be risky.’

‘Why?’

‘I think the Daleks have been tracking our flight-patterns,’ his melodious voice explained. ‘If they track us back to Earth, there is always the chance... that they’ll follow. But it’s not a certainty.’ When he seemed to hesitate, the Doctor continued: ‘There are other places too. Nice worlds we’ve visited...’

‘No.’ It seemed to apply as much to any suggestion of another refuge as to an invitation to stay on. Half in fascination, half in disgust, he glanced up and watched how the Doctor’s good eye closed and he lowered his head, while the rest of his face did not change.

‘There’s not much left, I think. Of the war,’ he confided.

‘How do you know?’ Fitz asked.

‘It was obvious already at the fall of Arcadia,’ the Doctor said without meeting his gaze. ‘And I feel it. This body doesn’t have much life left in it. But I’m going to keep it until this is over.’ Fitz had never considered that the Doctor may be able to feel such a thing. This body did look like it was nearing the end; not only was it maimed and scarred, but it looked tired, its soul threadbare and its cheeks sunken. Suddenly he felt a need to look at him properly and confront what scared him so. He got to his feet and crossed to him. The Doctor looked like he wanted to back away, but he stayed still and let Fitz come as close as he used to stand, within kissing distance. He felt false when he reached up and the Doctor first seemed to interpret it as an invitation to a kiss, moving his head minutely forwards; Fitz wondered if it was morbid curiosity rather than affection which was making him do this. Still, when his fingers slipped under the band of the eyepatch, the Doctor nodded once, giving him permission. The dread mixed with some kind of exhilaration as Fitz guided the band from around his head and then lowered the eyepatch itself.

He bit his lip, only to realise a moment later that what he had stopped from escaping was not a shout but a sob. There was no eyebrow left, and the scar tissue stretched over where his eye had been. The edges of the scar were jagged, reaching down to his mouth, but the skin within looked remarkably smooth. A single blue eye watched him back, seeming the only real thing in his face.

‘Please,’ the Doctor whispered. He were close enough for Fitz to feel the pulsing in the air as he spoke. ‘It’s always been you, Fitz. Don’t you remember all the things we’ve done? The taint? San Francisco? What happened in Geneva? The Faction Paradox? St Louis? All those things...’

‘It’s alright,’ Fitz said silently, placing his hand on his shoulder. His voice was hoarse with tears. As if the Doctor had been waiting for him to breach the void between them, he leaned their foreheads together. Fitz, much as he wanted to flinch, did not allow himself the satisfaction. ‘It’s going to be alright.’ When the Doctor shook his head, Fitz separated their foreheads and instead drew him into an embrace. The Doctor accepted far too willingly, and he clung far too desperately.

‘Please, Fitz,’ he whispered again, choking on tears ( _I wonder if he can still cry_ ). ‘Can’t we add the end of the world to that list? I can’t fight this war without you.’

‘And with me?’

‘At least...’ He trailed off and then admitted: ‘At least there will be company.’

Fitz knew what he had to do. Draw back, say no, go home, pretend it never happened, and that he had never seen the things he had. But Fitz Kreiner had felt alien soil under his feet and seen something greater, and now he knew what life was about. The one thing which mattered was the Doctor. War or no war, eye or no eye, begging or no...

‘Will it really be the end of the world?’ he whispered.

‘To me it will,’ the Doctor said and drew back to be able to look at him. ‘When this war is over, I will die.’

 _I will die with you._

‘I...’ Fitz started.

‘Please don’t,’ the Doctor whispered at the same time. ‘Please.’

‘I’m staying,’ he blurted out and the Doctor’s eye widened in surprise and delight, while the scar strained as his muscles tugged at it. ‘I couldn’t go.’

‘I was so certain...’

‘You’re rubbish on your own,’ Fitz said and could not help laughing a little. The Doctor smiled back. ‘Doctor, I...’ He was about to tell him, so close that he could taste that feared word which he had finally decided to use, but his nerve failed him. He sighed and looked away, embarrassed.

‘I know,’ the Doctor just said and touched his cheek. ‘I know, Fitz.’ He looked up, wondering whether he really knew or only wanted to instill a feeling of calm in him. Not keen to ask him to elaborate, Fitz replaced the eyepatch instead, the Doctor only guiding his hands to make final adjustments. When the mystery of what lay under it had been revealed, it seemed less frightening; it still made him look like a twisted version of the dandyish eccentric he had first gotten to know when his life was one drab commercial break, and now he saw how that old version of him lingered behind the flawed exterior.

The Doctor smiled his thanks and turned to return to the control room, but Fitz stopped him, grabbing his arm. When he turned around his placed a hand on his cheek and guided their lips together. The Doctor kissed back, both gratefully and greedily. The way the kiss felt had not been changed. When they pulled apart, Fitz kept the hold of his arm a little longer.

‘I’ll stay,’ he said. _Until the end._


End file.
